


this everyday love

by gravityinglass



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Realism, Mo is a soft werewolf, Urban Fantasy, otherwise canon-compliant, slow burn (or slow given the length of the fic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravityinglass/pseuds/gravityinglass
Summary: The house looks like something Morgan’s grandmother would have owned, painted baby blue with white gingerbread trim, and an entirely overgrown rose garden in the front. The house has clearly been left to the elements, even if the elegant Victorian exterior bears the aging well. Morgan’s pretty sure he’s seen exterior shots of it in a period drama, anyway. It's an objectively nice house, if in need of some work.Morgan stares at it dubiously.“Enough room for the team,” Jake says through a mouthful of dried mango. “Big yard for Maggie.”“I haven't bought it,” Morgan tries to argue. “Choosing a house is important.”“I have a feeling about this house,” Jake continues. “You're gonna buy this house, and you're gonna bitch about fixing it up, but you're gonna love it and live here forever. It's a captain’s house.” Jake grins. “You know I'm right.”Goddamnit. Morgan is going to buy this house.--or, Morgan Rielly buys a house, builds a pack, gets a life, and falls in love, pretty much in that order. Somewhere in there, he plays some hockey, howls at the moon, and loses at least six pairs of socks to his thieving packmates. It's a pretty good life.





	this everyday love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forwardpass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forwardpass/gifts).



> Written for the 2018 Leafs rarepair exchange! Forwardpass asked for some Jake/Mo with soulmates/soulbonds, magical realism, found family, and soft boys being in love. I hope you enjoy your gift, dear!
> 
> I've fudged some dates and totally made up the house Morgan buys; the pack system i tried to make relatively unique but it probably was unintentionally echoing other things I've seen or read. Fic starts summer 2015, about three weeks before Kessel was traded.
> 
> Jake calls Morgan Moose, which is the closest reasonable spelling I can get to the actual pronunciation of the nickname I want to use, which is phonetically probably closer to Moo-moos.
> 
> The amount of Holmes Homes I watched for this is...not worth mentioning.
> 
> Title from Rascal Flatts "This Everyday Love."

****_It's ordinary plain and simple/typical, this everyday love/same 'ol, same 'ol keeping it new/(Same 'ol this everyday love)/Emotional, so familiar/nothing about it too peculiar/oh, but I can't get enough/of this everyday love._

**\--**

The house looks like something Morgan’s grandmother would have owned, painted baby blue with white gingerbread trim, and an entirely overgrown rose garden in the front. The house has clearly been left to the elements, even if the elegant Victorian exterior bears the aging well. Morgan’s pretty sure he’s seen exterior shots of it in a period drama, anyway. It's an objectively nice house, if in need of some work.

Morgan stares at it dubiously.

“Enough room for the team,” Jake says through a mouthful of dried mango. “Big yard for Maggie.”

“It has eight bedrooms and a pool house,” the real estate agent adds helpfully. Her name is Karen, and Morgan has seen more of her in the past month than he has just about anyone else, excluding Jake--and that's only because he actually currently _lives_ with Jake. “Along with the fenced in backyard and the large downstairs common space. There's a butcher's pantry and a large kitchen, in addition to three and a half baths.”

“Who needs that much room?” Morgan mutters.

Karen offers a tight smile. She's clearly as tired of this house search as Morgan is. “This house was most recently owned by a fundamentalist Christian group and the founder’s four wives before the bank foreclosed. I believe there were seventeen children in addition to the wives and the founder.”

Jake stuffs another dried mango into his mouth. “Your new house belonged to a cult.”

“I haven't bought it,” Morgan tries to argue. “Choosing a house is important.”

“Yeah, but you want this one. The cult house.”

Morgan rolls his eyes and follows his real estate agent down the front walkway and up to the porch. He’s not totally sure why Jake decided to tag along to these appointments but he’s been present for every single one, even the ones Morgan didn’t tell him about. Morgan suspects Karen has been emailing them both.

“It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, being unused for the last five years.” Karen pauses as she works the key out of the lockbox hanging from the door handle. “Most people looking for a house this size don’t want to bother with fixing it up, and those who want to fix it up don’t want a project so large. I wouldn’t even be showing it to you, but none of the other properties we’ve looked at have been to your taste.”

Morgan rubs at his forehead. It's early summer in Toronto and he’s sweating. “Alright, let's see it.”

The house really does need work beyond a fresh coat of paint on the outside. The kitchen is a dark 1980s themed nightmare, and the carpeting is a hideous shade of orange. The stairs to the third floor are more ladder than stairs, and Morgan has no intention of using either the single tiny shower cubicle on the second floor or the standalone clawfoot tub in the master bedroom. There’s a terrible draft, and the windows are all clearly single-paned. The wallpaper is dated and peeling. It’ll take months of work before the house is something Morgan could really live in. It’s too much work, even for a workaholic like Morgan and the finest contractors his re-signing bonus can find.

“He’s gonna buy the house,” Jake tells Karen when they're all back downstairs, looking at the kitchen and its godawful tiling.

“I am not going to buy this house. When would I have time to do renovations on it?”

Jake shrugs. “Summer? You'll figure it out.”

“What would I even do with eight bedrooms?”

“Home gym, game room, trophy room, your room, guest room, Maggie's room, room for the rookie you're gonna adopt, room for me--”

Morgan stares at Jake. “ _Your_ room?”

“Fine, a guest room I'm always gonna stay in, whatever.” Jake points at the backyard. “Patio and pool. You've always wanted a patio and pool.”

“The last four houses I looked at all had patios and pools.”

“But you want this house's patio and pool,” Jake sing-songs. “You've always loved a big project.”

Karen is pointedly not looking at either of them. She’s over in the butcher’s pantry, looking at her phone.

“I have a feeling about this house,” Jake continues. “You're gonna buy this house, and you're gonna bitch about fixing it up, but you're gonna love it and live here forever. It's a captain’s house.” Jake grins. “You know I'm right.”

Goddamnit. Morgan is going to buy this house.

\--

Morgan doesn’t _mean_ to be so picky, but a house that's his own is different from sharing an apartment or staying in billets. A house is putting down roots, settling down. A house is a big deal, a place where you put everything you love and take care of it.

It doesn’t help that all the other houses Morgan went to see just didn’t _smell_ right.

Morgan was three when he shifted for the first time. He doesn't remember it, but his mom has pictures. _Lots_ of pictures. He spent almost that entire year shifted, exploring the world on his oversized paws. He was a pretty cute cub, he’ll admit, but it’s hard to explain to the humans why he’s suddenly got four legs and a tail when they see his childhood photos. He's heard enough dog jokes for a lifetime.

His home pack had been four families, all with a handful of children. Morgan’s family had been on the small side, with only the two kids, but it hardly mattered. Pack was family, and Morgan tussled with a bear cub and a fox kit, along with his own wolfy brother. They were all shifters, and Morgan only slept in his own bed one night out of five. He didn’t sleep alone until he was twelve. Pack was about family with or without blood ties, about twenty people showing up to his midget hockey games, about opening their homes to anyone needing a bed and a meal, about never locking the front door and always having extra space for someone to snuggle in.

Billeting for juniors was kind of a culture shock. He lived with a non-shifter family who didn’t really understand how shifting or packs worked, which kind of sucked.

By kind of, Morgan meant a lot. It sucked a lot. It was a rough adjustment period but it worked out in the end. He doesn't like to dwell on those memories, back when he survived with day trips home and demanding team cuddles whenever he could.

He'd been worried when he'd put himself forward for the draft, and worried when he'd been drafted to Toronto, a team with no publicly-known shifters on its roster, but it ended up being okay.

Having such a close-knit team makes it easier to live away from his pack. They depend on each other, trust each other. It's part of why Morgan hadn't needed to find a pack in Toronto these last couple of years. His teammates were all pretty tactile folks, and there was such a sense of a shared goal and a busy, involved culture that Morgan barely had time to miss pack dinners and weekends spent hiking.

Jake's the rest of the reason Morgan has survived so long as a packless wolf in Toronto.

Jake's as good a roommate as Morgan could have asked for. Neither of them are very responsible, but the apartment smells safe and Morgan can relax there. Jake had been fine with letting Maggie come along when Morgan moved in, so after two months the apartment had smelled like athlete and dog and altogether too much takeout.

They’ve got a system down: Jake drives them to practice in the mornings, Morgan makes sure their bills are paid on time, they split the cost of the dog sitter for when they’re on road games, and Maggie gets to sit on the couch. Combined, Morgan and Jake own four nerf guns, a giant stuffed panther, and not nearly enough dishes. Maggie contributes an ungodly amount of chew toys to their accumulation of stuff. Morgan's not sure what makes those things so important in the apartment he calls home for two years, but that apartment also has Jake.

Morgan's not totally sure if Jake knows he's a shifter, but at this point they've been friends and roommates long enough Morgan would feel weird asking. Jake's always good for a cuddle, and he's a decent enough roommate, so Morgan's not gonna rock the boat if he can help it.

Even if he does sometimes dream of hunting down a rabbit and giving it to Jake, and getting the kind of ear rub Jake always gives Maggie in return. It's not socially appropriate--especially with his teammate, God--and anyways Jake probably prefers when Morgan curbs that particular instinct by bringing home Thai food from the place on the corner.

There's a time and a place for courtship, and this isn't the time or the place for it.

Morgan doesn’t even own his own house yet anyways.

\--

Morgan buys the house on a Tuesday afternoon. He held out a week just to prove a point to Jake, but he really did love the house already.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he moans once the papers are signed and the keys handed over. “Like, it’s _bad._ ”

“Start with the kitchen,” Jake suggests. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter in the apartment they still share, even though Morgan just _bought a house, holy shit._ “Do the big stuff so you can move in. Kitchen, master bedroom, bathroom.”

Morgan looks down at his pile of paperwork. “I feel like that's suspiciously good advice.”

Jake shrugs. “I have a feeling it'll work out, dude. That house is like, made for you.”

Morgan has lived with Jake for two years. He's seen Jake flood the bathroom twice, eat questionable leftovers and puke at least four times, and get his sleeping schedule so mixed up that the trainers were genuinely giving Jake _so now you're a creature of the night_ pamphlets. Jake's favorite item of furniture is an enormous neon orange bean bag that takes up a good third of the living room, which Jake brought home on a whim one day with a shrug. Morgan is pretty sure he shouldn't be taking home renovation advice from a guy who once broke a chair, a window, and three plates trying to hang up a framed jersey.

That said, Jake's feelings have an annoying tendency to work out.

“I guess. I just don’t even know what I want the kitchen to look like to start fixing it up.”

Jake jumps off the counter. “What do you like about this kitchen?”

“Huh?”

“This kitchen. You like the fridge?”

“Bigger freezer’d be nice, I guess.”

“So you want a bigger freezer. The stove?”

“It's good, I guess.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Work with me here, Moose. Have an opinion.”

“I like that it's a gas stove and not electric.”

“Ok, gas stove, got it.” Jake grabs a pad of paper--it has Karen the real estate agent's contact information embossed on top, and Morgan's not sure how it ended up in their apartment--and writes that down. “You want to remodel that breakfast nook it's got, right? Have a place for Maggie to watch you cook and be out of the way?”

They go through the kitchen like that, Morgan slowly assembling an idea of what his new house's kitchen needed. When they’re done, Jake nods and grins at Morgan.

“Start there,” he says, and then, “Peanut butter and tuna sandwiches are totally within our meal plans, right, like as long as I put it on that ancient grains protein bread?”

Morgan is too busy gagging to respond.

\--

Jake comes over and helps Morgan paint the master bedroom.

Morgan had sat down with an interior designer and come up with an actual plan after Jake had walked him through the kitchen and it turned out there was a lot more than Morgan could do on his own. The interior designer had introduced Morgan to contractors and drawn opinions out of him. Morgan had never known it, but he had strong opinions about window dressings. At the end of it, he had a standing check-in appointment and the designer on retainer, and a giant binder filled with fabric swatches and invoices and notes on what was going to go where.

That just left putting everything together.

Technically he could hire someone to do a lot of the legwork on his house--and he was for a lot of the heavier lifting, like tearing down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, or installing new plumbing in the master bathroom--but there are some things Morgan just wants to do for himself.

A plumber had come and redone the master bathroom, and the contractor had redone the carpeted floors to be shining hardwood. The wiring was up to date, and a new lighting fixture had been installed. Furniture was scheduled to be delivered two days later, so there was a little bit of a deadline to get the room painted.

Jake was game for almost anything if Morgan promised beer and control of the Netflix queue after, so it had been easy to rope him in. He'd brought old team gear to paint in and a giant rawhide chew for Maggie, so Morgan was pretty sure he was winning this one anyways.

“You ever feel like we're just waiting for something?” Morgan asks, putting the last bit of tape over the molding at the upper corners of the room. Maggie is curled up on a pile of tarps, gnawing on her treat with clear enjoyment. Morgan can't quite see her, but he can hear her. “Like--there's something that's coming, but you don't know what, and you just want it to come?”

He doesn't see Jake's reaction, being that Jake is behind him, struggling to open the lid on a paint can. He can imagine Jake's shrug, though.

“Not really.” Jake grunts, and there's the scrape of metal. “Either what you want will happen, or it won’t.” He pauses. “You thinking about the Cup?”

Morgan shrugs and starts backing down off the ladder. “I guess. I mean--I’m 21, and I own this great big mess of a house, and I'm playing for a team that plays like crap even on a good day, and...it just feels like there's something we’re waiting for to make it all make sense, you know?”

“Maybe it doesn't have to,” Jake suggests. “Hey, help? I can't get this open.”

It takes them a couple of tries, but they get the can open, revealing a buttery yellow paint.

“That's a good color,” Jake says, sounding surprised. “I thought you wanted a green bedroom.”

Morgan shakes his head, tipping the can of paint into the tray they'll use for the rollers. “Maybe someday, but I thought this would go with more things. Like, decorating stuff.”

“Huh,” Jake says. “Alright, let’s get this bitch painted.”

“Don’t call my house a bitch.”

Jake brandishes his paint roller. “I am giving you free labor. I should be able to call this house whatever I want.”

“At least be _nice_ to her.” Morgan scowls at Jake, feeling his nose wrinkle.

“You’re going to name it something dumb like Bluebell House.” An unholy grin spreads across Jake’s face. “I will pay you whatever you want to name your house Carlton Manor.”

“ _Carlton_ _Manor--”_

Maggie huffs at both of them and waddles her way over to flump down in between them.

“Aw, Mags, your hips hurting?” Jake immediately asks, dropping his roller onto the tarp. He gives Maggie one of his ear-rubs, the kind that gets Maggie drooling on the floor in canine bliss. “You got plenty of years in you, you're a good girl, yes you are.”

They spend the rest of the morning painting. Maggie contentedly chews on her rawhide, tail wagging whenever one of them comes close enough to pet her. She falls asleep in a pool of sunlight, the rawhide still in her mouth.

By the time they’ve finished two walls, Maggie is itching for a walk and Jake declares they need a break. They walk to the pizza place two blocks down with Maggie trotting along beside them, and Morgan ducks into the LCBO to buy the beer he'd promised Jake. Morgan gets a good craft beer because he has some taste, and a pumpkin ale Jake will love because Jake has the flavor palate of a twelve-year-old white girl.

When they get back to the house, they eat pizza and drink beer on the floor, dotting the excess grease off with napkins. Jake loves plain cheese pizza, so that’s what they got, and he makes humming noises of contentment as he licks the excess sauce off his thumb.

“Your agent on you to do more sponsorships?” Jake asks, taking another sip of beer.

Morgan exhales through his teeth. “I wanted to wait into the season, y'know.”

“Yeah, but it’s better to get your camp together early.” Jake rubs his hand through Maggie’s fur, nudging her away from the box with the last few slices of pizza. “You could probably get a few extra things in your deals, considering how bad Toronto want to keep you. Six years, man, you got it.”

“You think?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Come on. If you think they’re getting rid of you, you’re an idiot.” He kicks out at Morgan's ankle, a softness around his eyes. “They need you and me to tear it up.”

Morgan snorts. “If anything the Leafs ever do can be considered tearing it up.”

“Hey. Don’t be dumb. We’re rebuilding. We’re supposed to suck right now. You and me, we’ll be Leafs for a while yet. You’ll have plenty of time to fill this big dumb house of yours.”

“You were the one who wanted me to buy this house!” Morgan squawks.

Jake just laughs, swiping another slice of pizza out of the box.

It takes them a little while to get themselves off the floor and back to work, but the remaining walls seem to go quickly. They take Maggie for a quick walk around the block, which turns into Jake chatting with the neighbors about their new kitten.

The kitten is very interested in Maggie. Maggie is deeply unimpressed.

“I want a cat,” Jake says once they’re back in Morgan's house. “Not gonna get one, but I want one.”

“You could have a cat.”

Jake shakes his head. “Nah. Maggie’s enough for me. Wouldn't want her to get jealous.” He bumps his shoulder into Morgan’s. “Hey, you promised me control of the remote tonight, yeah? I bet you there’s a new episode of that show with the hot witch lady is on somewhere tonight.”

Morgan raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Once Upon a Time?”

“Yeah! And we can finish off that pumpkin lager you got for me.”

Jake drives them back to the apartment. Maggie bounds ahead of them, sniffing at all the neighbor's doors. They split up to shower--Morgan can _feel_ a few drips of paint dried in his hair--and reconvene once they're all pyjama’d and scrubbed up.

It’s not until they're all three of them on the couch, Maggie and Mo and Jake, that Morgan realizes it’s the new moon.

Lycanthropy isn't as related to the phases of the moon as humans used to think. Modern science has mostly figured out it has to do with chromosomal genetics and entire biology textbooks of recessive genes, and some unidentifiable quantity no one wants to call _magic_. The moon has as much to do with Morgan's desire to shift into wolf form as Christmas does.

On the other hand, there are hundreds of years of wolf traditions built on the moon’s cycles, back when people thought lycanthropy was something that should be cured or shunned. Full moons were always whole-pack nights when Morgan was growing up; he misses the huge gatherings they’d have in a rented dance hall or the day trips they’d have in massive caravans of cars crammed full of cousins and friends and memories that always carried the salty tang of sweat. New moons were for close family, for spending time with your nearest and dearest loved ones.

Morgan sniffles a little. If he were in Vancouver now, his mom would be making pot roast and the tofu thing his brother insisted on, now that he’d gone vegetarian. There’d be country music playing from the radio in the kitchen, and his dad would pull his mom into a dance. Pack life revolves around food and closeness, in taking care of each other.

He still aches for his pack in painful, tangible ways, misses having family at every game and practice. Having fans is all well and good, but it’s not quite the same.

It was easy to miss that when he was here in Toronto. At least he had Maggie, and Jake.

“Thanks,” Morgan says, when the TV has gone to commercial break. “For helping paint, and everything.”

Jake looks at Morgan, hair still damp and wetting the collar of his white t-shirt, and keeps rubbing at the muscles in Maggie’s back. “What’re friends for, Moose?” He asks. “But I'm definitely using this to make you buy next time we’re out with the guys.”

Morgan can’t find it in himself to argue, and settles back into the couch to pet Maggie and bask in the presence of someone as pack-like as he has in Toronto, in a place that's pretty much his den. New moons can be lonely, but Morgan has Maggie and Jake, and that’s all he really needs for now.

\--

Morgan goes home the week before training camp. His summer has been eaten up with remodeling the house and dealing with the tail end of his contract. He’d gotten signed in April, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t nonsense he still had to deal with.

He and Maggie take a flight out to Vancouver, where his aunt and a handful of younger cousins collect them with a glittery sign. He’s swarmed the second they see him, and he’s buried in familiar pup-scent, along with the comforting earthy smell of his wholly human aunt. Technically Morgan's not related to any of them by blood, but it’s not like pack _cares_ about that.

There’s an extra seat in the minivan, which surprises Morgan. Usually, any airport runs see any car filled as full as possible. He wonders if they thought Maggie’s crate would be larger than it is, but he doesn’t have to worry for long.

“We thought you'd be bringing Jake,” Aunt Claire explains. She buckles the littlest pup into his car seat and checks that the rest of the kids are properly secured. Morgan lends a hand by checking the straps on a booster seat and making sure the older kids have buckled in too. “I'm assuming his family wanted to see him before your training camp too.”

Morgan thinks about the beach trip Jake put together with a couple of the guys, winces, and changes the subject.

It’s a 45-minute drive to West Vancouver in the best of conditions, so Morgan settles in to listen to the pups chatter about school. Maggie adds in encouraging barks every so often, which quickly turn into whining pleas to be let out of her crate.

By the time they finally pull into the driveway of Aunt Claire’s house, Morgan has settled six squabbles, passed out four ziplock bags of Cheerios, convinced the pups that Maggie does not need to come out of her crate, and heard the alphabet recited forwards seven times and backwards three. It’s good to be home.

The kids scramble for the house after fumbling with their seatbelts. Aunt Claire gives Morgan another hug and chases after the kids, reminding them to take off their shoes at the door, the baby waving her chubby fists at Morgan over Aunt Claire’s shoulder.

“Hey Mags,” Morgan murmurs as he pops the trunk open. Maggie woofs at him, her tail wagging frantically. Once she’s free from the crate, she immediately takes an enormous dump on the lawn.

Morgan rolls his eyes and uses the plastic bag he’d stashed in his backpack to clean up after her, then heads two doors down to his parent’s house. He carries Maggie’s empty crate awkwardly in one hand and slings his backpack over his shoulder; Maggie trots obediently at his heels.

No one’s home when he gets there, so he uses his key to let himself in. His mom’s left a note on the counter: she’s at work, his dad is out overseeing a delivery, Connor will be over for dinner, and there’s a bed set up in the guest room upstairs. At the bottom, in all caps, she's written MAGGIE MAY NOT SLEEP IN YOUR BED. Morgan fully intends on ignoring that instruction.

Morgan fills a bowl of water for Maggie and gives her a half-serving of kibble, then goes to find the bed his mom had readied for him, more than in need of a nap.

He’s woken a few hours later by a body landing heavily on the mattress next to him and someone roughly rubbing their hands through his hair.

“G’way, Jake,” he slurs, rolling back over and mashing his face into his pillow.

Someone pinches his arm and Morgan sits up with a yelp. It’s not Jake who’d woken him up; it’s Connor with a wide smirk on his face. Morgan’s brother is a dick. Morgan’s missed him.

“Not Jake, but Mom wants to know why you didn’t bring him.”

“Jake had his own plans.” Morgan rubs at his arm where Connor pinched him. “That _hurt_ , you dick.”

“Oh, is the big strong NHL player whining over an ouchie?”

Morgan socks Connor in the arm. “It’s not like we go around pinching other players on the ice, asshole.”

Connor rolls his eyes. He might be the big brother, but their mom always says it’s Morgan with the old soul. Even when they were kids, it was Morgan keeping Connor in line.

“Seriously, why no Jake?” Connor asks. “You bought a house with him, and you think we wouldn’t want to meet him?”

Morgan shakes his head, trying to get the rest of the sleep fog out. “Okay, one, it’s not like I’ve ever brought him home before, and two, I bought a house and he gave advice I didn’t ask for. It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing.”

“And _Jake Gardiner_ is who you went to for advice?” Morgan can hear the skepticism in his brother’s voice. “Uh, Morgan? Do we need to check you out for TBIs?”

Morgan shoves Connor off the bed and rolls to his feet. “He’s not dumb, dude.”

“No, but you did tell me about the time you came home after a night out and he tried to open your apartment door with his car clicker for five minutes while you lost it laughing.”

“To be fair--” Morgan starts, but he’s cut off by their mom yelling up the stairs.

The kitchen smells like lasagne and garlic bread. That had been Morgan’s favorite meal when he’d first left for billets, and no matter how much he tells his mom he likes pork chops pan fried with a little soy sauce better now, she still makes lasagne every time he comes home.

Mom--or Connor, maybe--has set the table with the familiar blue willow plates Morgan grew up with, and Morgan can smell freshly-baked brownies in the kitchen. Maggie is sleeping under the kitchen table again. It looks like Dad took her out to the garage and vacuumed the loose fur off and then brushed her, judging by the sheen of her coat and the blue bow tied around her neck.

“Hands!” Dad barks before Morgan and Connor can sit at the table, so Morgan goes to wash his hands in the downstairs bathroom while Connor scrubs up at the kitchen sink. Everything about it feels like all of Morgan’s childhood, and it fills him with warmth.

“We’re billeting some local kids this year,” Morgan’s dad says, once they’re all seated and plates have been dished up. “A pair of shifter siblings. We’re hoping it’ll be easier on them in a pack environment than billeting was on you, Morgan.”

Morgan makes a face and hides his head in his hands. “It wasn’t that bad.”

His mom raises an eyebrow, looking distinctly unimpressed. “I think you’ve repressed select memories. You still have Maggie, after all.”

They don’t directly talk about it often, but there’s a reason Morgan has Maggie in Toronto. She’s not pack, but she’s reliable and provides unconditional love when it gets hard feeling so far away from his family.

Playing in juniors, living in billets--it had been bad. Morgan’s parents had nearly had a coronary when Morgan admitted how bad it had been. When Morgan had been drafted to Toronto, they’d threatened to move across the country with him. Maggie had been the compromise, along with a roommate and frequent check-ins.

While wolves could and often did function alone, Morgan was pretty social even for a wolf and functioned best in a pack environment. Despite the Leafs’ system having a total lack of shifters, Morgan had found the team environment on first the Marlies and then the Leafs themselves to be a mostly adequate substitute.

“Speaking of,” Mom says. “Jake. How’s he? Why didn’t he come along?”

Morgan groans. “He had other plans.”

“What, and meeting the pack isn’t high on that list?”

“He’s pack?”

There’s a silence around the table. Morgan runs through all the interactions his family has ever had with Jake, every time he can remember mentioning Jake to his parents, and realizes what they must think.

Morgan shakes his head and continues. “Sorry, I didn’t--there’s been a misunderstanding--”

“Oh, honey,” Mom says before Morgan can explain that he’s not dating Jake, even a little bit. “Of course he is. You’re still living with him, aren’t you? He’s been texting me updates. Mostly just photos of Maggie and your house, mind you--”

Morgan's dad raises an eyebrow. “I have a bone to pick with you on that front, too. Want to explain why you didn't call to ask for house advice?”

Rielly Lumber is Morgan's dad's pride and joy. Morgan had spent at least three summers stuffing envelopes and answering phones for his dad; some days it seemed like a third of the pack was involved in some way, shape, or form.

“When I do my deck, I'll call you,” Morgan promises.

“Damn straight you will.”

After dinner, they all end up piled into Mom and Dad’s bed, the way they used to when Mo was little. Vaguely, Mo knows it’s a little strange, but Morgan hasn’t had pack time in too goddamn long.

He and Connor shift first, tussling together before their mom steps into wolf form to cuff them behind the ears with a disapproving paw. Their dad isn’t a shifter, but he settles into the middle of the bed for the rest of them to curl around.

It’s a good end to a good night, listening to his dad read aloud from a collection of short stories, his mom grooming his ears, and Connor barking out amused laughs whenever Morgan tries to squirm away from their mother’s attention. It’s not long before Maggie joins them, joyful to be included in their cuddle pile.

Morgan goes back to Toronto feeling ready for the season. It’s nerve-wracking that Naz hasn’t signed a contract by the time training camp is over, but there’s not exactly much Morgan can do about it.  There’s Maggie and Jake, and that’s all that he can really hope for.

It’s good that he has Maggie and Jake to lean on, it turns out; The 2015-16 season _sucks._  There's no other word for it. The Leafs are literally the worst team in the league, and they're not even technically _trying_ to tank; they're just that bad. They had lost Kessel over the summer, which puts a definite dent in their scoring chances. One of the guys they pick up in the Pens trade is a lynx shifter who seems completely at ease in their system almost immediately. Morgan likes him, even if Kapanen is a little standoffish. Instinctually, lynxes aren't as pack-oriented as wolves.

The team has a few good prospects and a general knowledge that they're rebuilding, but tensions are rising with Phaneuf and Babcock. Morgan gets why they’d consider trading him, and he gets that Babcock has a different system than Phaneuf likes, but the wolfy part of him screams at the thought of losing the captain.

He likes having an authority figure to lean on, and Phaneuf exudes enough authority for Morgan to feel safe.

The team feels unstable, uncomfortably reminiscent of Morgan’s stint in billets. It’s not a good feeling, but Morgan has faith in the Leafs system. They’re a team; they’ll work out. He just wishes he actually believed it.

Morgan moves into his house, and the first night is frankly bizarre. Jake spends the next night, and they have to share a bed because Morgan hasn't gotten around to fixing up a guest room for actual guests. Jake's not an actual guest anyways; he's just Jake. Morgan could have put him on the mattress leaning against the wall in what'll eventually become the home gym when Morgan gets around to it, but it's just easier for Jake to settle in on the other side of Morgan's bed.

Morgan can’t actually count the number of times he’s shared a bed with Jake over the past couple of years.They’re tactical people who have crashed out in the same bed while watching movies, after a party at a teammate’s house, while talking late at night in the apartment they shared.

It’s nice, having another body’s worth of warmth on the other side of the mattress, the rhythm of their breathing as comforting background noise to fall asleep to. The beginning of the season is always exhausting, and Morgan can feel that ache in muscles he’d forgotten he had over the summer. Jake can fall asleep anywhere, anytime, which Morgan envies when the bruise on his hip aches just enough to keep him awake.

Morgan slips out of bed to find the painkillers he’d stocked in the bathroom cupboard and swallows one with water from his cupped hands. He rubs the excess water on his palms across his forehead, appreciating the immediate coolness.

Maggie noses at his knees, licking at his hand when he turns his attention to her.

“I’m okay,” he tells her. She sits, big brown eyes begging for a treat. “Not this late at night, Mags. C’mon, to bed.”

She follows him back into the master bedroom, the clicking of her nails on the bathroom tile transitioning to muffled footfalls on the rug by his bedside.

Jake has turned in his sleep to sleep on his back. He’s pushed the pillows aside, so his head is tipped back to reveal the long line of his throat even with his jaw dropped open. He’d borrowed a t-shirt from Morgan to sleep in, so there’s a 44 embossed over his heart, next to the familiar Leafs logo. Jake is absolutely and totally dead to the world, his breathing not changing at all when Morgan slides under the covers and Maggie jumps up to curl up between their legs.

Morgan sleeps in for once, so he wakes up to Jake cursing as he trips over a stack of boxes Morgan hasn’t unpacked yet.

“Careful,” Morgan says, sitting up.

Jake curses again. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Happens. You need something?”

“Was gonna see what you had for breakfast supplies.”

Morgan makes a face. “I haven’t gone grocery shopping for all the staples yet, and I’m pretty sure I only have a frying pan at the moment. I think I’m getting a package with a set of pans and utensils and plates and stuff tomorrow? I don’t know anymore.”

Jake shrugs. “Want to go out for breakfast?”

They wind up at a cafe that still has the patio open. It’s brisk, as Toronto in October tends to be, and they have optional skate that afternoon. Morgan doesn’t actually intend to hit the ice, but he’s got to check in with the trainers and do a circuit or two of weights in addition to his usual Thursday workout.

Without having to ask, Jake slides the sauteed bell peppers from his plate onto Morgan’s and forks up a chunk of Morgan’s omelet before digging into his corned beef hash. It’s looking like it’s going to be a good Thursday.

Morgan smiles and digs in.

\--

In early November, Jake tags along with Morgan to buy a couch for the living room. Morgan has been making do with a couple of Ikea armchairs and a ratty papasan chair, but he's finally finished painting the common area and needs a place for guests to sit.

They end up in an actual fancy furniture store; up until this point, Morgan has pretty much bought his furniture at Ikea or out of a catalog the designer had given him. He wants to road test the couch first; the comfort and squishiness of a couch aren't something you can easily tell from a catalog, and Ikea seems too juvenile for a house that's shaping up the way Morgan's is.

Morgan is mostly overwhelmed by choice, and Jake has a surprising amount of opinions. By which Morgan means Jake vetoes just about everything immediately and with extreme prejudice.

“Dude,” Morgan says after Jake rejects a perfectly nice green sofa with a matching armchair and loveseat. “Why do you have such strong couch opinions? You've never cared before.”

“It has to be _right_ ,” Jake says. He's pouting a little, which Morgan might find cute if they hadn't been looking at couches for literally three hours. “C'mon, with the amount of time I spend at your house, I should get my couch opinions considered.”

“You hate all of them, so your opinions are becoming increasingly worthless to me.”

Jake smacks Morgan in the arm. “Dude, you can't rush this. How long is that couch gonna be in your house? Forever, probably. You gotta make sure it's the best couch you're gonna get. It has to be perfect.”

Morgan glares at Jake. “I think you're putting your frustrations about the season onto my couch, and I just want a place to sit when watching a movie.”

“Maybe we don't find it today,” Jake says. “But it's like the house: when we find the right one, we'll just know.”

“ _We,”_ Morgan grumbles. “What is this _we_? it's _my_ house.”

Jake slings his arm around Morgan's shoulders. “And it’s gonna be my ass on that sofa more often than not. Come on, Moose, the perfect couch awaits.”

When Jake finds what he declares to be the perfect couch, Morgan has to begrudgingly agree it's better than the green set Morgan had liked earlier.

It's an enormous L-shaped sectional that reportedly sits five, though Morgan is certain closer to seven could fit. The seat is deep and plush, and the whole thing is a creamy brown leather that will definitely go with the butter-yellow walls in Morgan's living room.

“So you're getting it and admitting I'm right, right?” Jake asks from where he's sprawled out, testing the cushions. “Come on, tell me this isn't the greatest sofa ever.”

Morgan rolls his eyes. “It's a good couch.”

Jake wiggles and pats the cushion above his head. “It's perfect for impromptu naps.”

“If you like it so much, why don't you get it for your place?”

Jake looks scandalized. “It wouldn't fit in my living room, and I'm not taking your couch.” He props himself up on his elbows. “And they totally have a matching armchair.”

Morgan sighs. “You know, you can buy a house and furnish it any way you want.”

“But yours is already around.” Jake looks at Morgan, oddly and abruptly solemn. “If you hate it, don't get it.”

Morgan blinks at the sudden shift in tone. “What?”

“If you don't like the couch, we'll go get that green one you liked.”

“I like this couch too.”

Jake shakes his head. “I was pushing too hard for what I wanted.”

Morgan goes and sits beside Jake. “Hey. No. I mean, yeah, I liked that green couch, but--this is more what my house needs. The green couch would be good in our apartment, but this--it's leather, so Maggie hair won't stick to it, and it's big enough to entertain, and it won't look tiny in that big open space. You were right. I liked the green couch, but this one's better.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. It sucks that I was wrong, and I hate that we've been couch shopping for four hours, but it's a good couch. C’mon, let's go make a salesperson happy.”

Jake is still kind of quiet while Morgan talks to a sales rep and orders not only the couch but a couple of hassocks, a coffee table, and a matching armchair. He gets confirmation that it'll be delivered the next day.

Jake buys them coffee on the way home, and he spends the night again.

The next morning, Morgan supervises the couch delivery while Jake makes a heavy lunch before their pre-game naps. Jake’s not an excellent cook--neither is Morgan, to be fair--but he can pull together a few recipes from memory. Combined with Morgan's ability to read a cookbook, they've never had to survive solely on take out the way some of their teammates have.

The house smells like tomatoes and garlic, so Morgan is betting that Jake is making spaghetti bolognese. It's either that or his weird chili over spaghetti noodles, which is almost spaghetti anyways.

“Moose,” Jake calls when Morgan is signing the last form and an autograph for the delivery guy. “Why do you have four kinds of salad mix?”

“Because I like salad, and I like options,” Morgan calls back.

He offers a smile at the delivery guy and hopes this doesn't end up in an article somewhere, or at least it gets contained to Twitter. He really doesn't want to have to answer the question “so do you prefer caesar salad to mix greens?” at his next media scrum.

On second thought, he'd rather answer “so Jake Gardiner is at your house cooking you dinner while you get furniture delivered, anything you'd like to say?” even less, so he hopes the delivery guy doesn't recognize Jake’s voice.

Thankfully the guy doesn’t say anything, and Morgan gets to go have lunch with Jake and then play a game of hockey after an afternoon nap, so Morgan guesses life is pretty good.

\--

When he finds out about the trade with the Senators, Morgan spends a whole night stripping wallpaper from the third-floor bedrooms, the ones he hasn’t even bothered touching yet.

The moonlight filters in, cool and comforting. A normal human might not notice the waning moonlight, but Morgan does. He'd tried sleeping but had given up around two-thirty, and then he'd found himself up here.

He rubs the walls down with hot water and softener, grumbling darkly to himself. Once he’s gotten the whole wall prepped, he starts tearing strips of wallpaper off, getting in there with his scraper when it really sticks. In the first room, he peels off three layers of wallpaper. He only gets through the first layer in the second room before Jake shows up.

Jake has a cardboard tray with two Tim Hortons cups and two plastic cups filled with green sludge. It’s probably around five in the morning.

“Figured you'd be in some agony over losing the captain,” he says, finding a spot on the floor not littered with tools or discarded wallpaper scraps. Morgan should really put those scraps in a trash bag.

“So what,” Morgan manages. He uses his scraper to get a small bit of stubborn wallpaper patterned with yellow ducks.

“Figured you’d want company,” Jake says.

Morgan grunts and grabs his bucket of softener solution, dropping the scraper to the floor with a clatter. He rubs down another section of wallpaper in long strokes, conscious of Jake watching him.

Jake slurps at his coffee, just watching Morgan work.

Morgan can hear Maggie whining from the second floor; he hasn’t gotten around to replacing the extra-steep stairs up to the third floor, and with her bad hips she can’t climb up the way she wants to.

“How many layers?” Jake asks.

Morgan pauses. He'd been expecting Jake to wait him out silently, but he supposes Jake is kind of emotionally invested in this house too, a little bit.

“Two so far.”

It's quiet a long while Morgan finishes up the ducky layer and starts in on the yellow rose pattern that's been taunting him. He and Jake both hold their breath when he pulls the first strip down, revealing yet another layer, this one pale green.

Jake exclaims “four layers!” and that's enough to break the tension. Morgan doubles over laughing, clutching his sides; Jake doesn't even wait a whole five seconds before joining in.

It takes them awhile to calm back down, and they're left in a barely pre-dawn room at an ungodly hour surrounded by scraps of discarded wallpaper. Everything is tinted a rosy pink by the pre-dawn twilight.

“I didn’t feel like we’d have him for that long,” Jake says quietly. “Like...like there’s something the Leafs are gonna be without Phaneuf.”

Morgan eyes Jake, setting down his rag and scraper. “Yeah?” He says after another silence. “What’d you mean by that?”

“I dunno. I guess when the coaching staff changed I figured there’d be a big shakeup. Not sure I thought it’d be so big, but--I dunno.” Jake takes a sip of his green smoothie and grimaces, then gestures for Morgan to sit. “You wanna tell me why it’s freaked you out so much?”

“It feels like something big,” Morgan says finally. “Bigger than anything else we’ve done so far, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“And we'll keep rolling right along.” Jake pulls Morgan into a side hug and passes him a green smoothie. “You've got your six-year contract, and it's not like the d-corps is going to need you any less. You and me, man. With or without Phaneuf.”

They stay like that for a bit, working on their smoothies and then their coffees. Jake has gotten them both double-doubles, because he’s shit at pretending he doesn’t have a sweet tooth and because he can’t be bothered to remember two different coffee orders.

Jake goes downstairs after a while, claiming he’ll get trash bags for Morgan to clean up with. Judging by Maggie’s excited barking, that's probably not going to be a quick trip.

Morgan waits a moment, looking around at the mess he’s made, and falls into his wolf. It's not a feeling he can completely describe, but it's as distinct an emotion as it is a physical change. It's halfway euphoric, curling into a warm, thick pelt, and distinctly traumatic, letting the human fall away. He's never understood why anyone would call it shifting when he enters an inhale as human and exits as a wolf. Morgan's mom had once called it stepping between forms, and Morgan thought that was the most accurate verb he was going to find.

On four paws, he looks for Jake. He finds Jake in the kitchen, attempting to convince Maggie she doesn't need more food. Maggie is entirely unconvinced. Morgan can read it in the tilt of her head, the swish of her tail. Body language is so much clearer when his nose is this sharp.

It's late enough that Maggie is probably filled with excess energy from missing her morning walk. Morgan huffs out a sigh, drawing Jake's attention.

Jake visibly startles to see Morgan on four legs. It takes Morgan a second to realize Jake has never seen Morgan in his wolf skin; Morgan doesn't usually like shifting inside, and Jake doesn't enjoy hiking or fishing the way Morgan and Maggie do.

Even so, Jake quickly shakes his surprise off.

“Moose! Tell Mags she's already had breakfast.”

Morgan just stares at him. Even in his wolf body, it's not like he can _talk_ to Maggie. There's no universal canine language, much less one between a mostly-human shifter and a food-motivated golden retriever on a mission.

He trots off towards the door, leaving Jake sputtering behind him. He collects Maggie's leash off of the hall table and circles back, dropping it at Jake's feet.

“You know,” Jake says. “That makes sense.”

Maggie woofs at them both, circling excitedly. Her nails click on the kitchen tile, and Morgan makes a mental note to trim her nails once he's got thumbs again.

“Moose, you wanna come with?”

They all go for a walk, Maggie on her leash and Morgan loping alongside Jake. Even though Morgan has lived in the house for four months, he hasn’t explored the neighborhood in his wolf skin.

It’s relatively early morning, and Morgan can just focus on the click of Maggie’s nails on the sidewalk, the rustle of Jake’s winter jacket, the cold concrete beneath his paws. This is the route Morgan will run some mornings with Maggie at his side, but this morning they go slow.

When they get back to the house, Jake serves Maggie some extra dry food and digs a carton of eggs out of the fridge for himself. He looks at Morgan and sighs.

“Okay Moose, you’re going to have to help me out here. Can wolves eat eggs?”

Morgan huffs out a breath and pads over to the fridge. Jake is kind enough to open it for him. Morgan paws at the top drawer, which contains a kilo of skirt steak that Morgan was planning to use for fajitas when some of the guys came over Monday night. He’d have to go pick up some more at the store if he ate it now, but that was a problem for later-Morgan. Now Morgan thought it’d make a pretty nice breakfast.

Jake unwraps the skirt steak from the butcher paper and puts it on a plate. After a moment’s thought, he sets it on the table.

Morgan whines at him. The kitchen chairs are really not built for wolf physiology.

“Is Maggie allowed to eat any of it? I don’t want her getting into your food.”

Morgan does his best to convey an eye roll. Once Jake puts the plate on the floor, Morgan picks up a good-sized chunk and carries it over to Maggie, then goes to eat his own breakfast.

From the sounds of it, Jake scrambles some eggs and makes some toast, along with a cup of the fruit salad Morgan keeps on the top shelf. It’s a quiet, satisfying breakfast; in his wolf-skin, raw meat is deeply pleasing, though Morgan will have to keep an eye on what he eats once he shifts back. While raw meat eaten in wolf form has never made him sick in human form, he has had to adjust his calorie intake to keep from over- or under-eating.

He cleans his muzzle and paws once he finishes; when he looks up, Maggie and Jake have headed into the living room.

Morgan finds a nice soft spot on the plush carpet in the den, where Jake has helpfully laid out a few pillows and the fleece throw Morgan keeps on the couch.

Jake's giant beanbag monstrosity would be so much more fun than even this nice pile of cushions. Morgan glares balefully at the open spot between his giant sofa and his favorite armchair, knowing the bean-bag would fit there perfectly.

Maggie whines. She's used to Morgan switching between forms, and she definitely knows it's him as she noses her way into the little nest Morgan's got going on. He expected it, expected her to creep in the way she sneaks into his bed in the middle of the night: slowly, tattered stuffed animal clamped in her jaws, as if he won't notice all seventy pounds of her slowly pinning down his legs.

What Morgan didn't expect was Jake flipping the TV on to something inane and thudding his entire body weight right behind Morgan alongside Maggie.

Jake runs his hand down Morgan's back.

Morgan is a wolf, of good North American stock. He's used to running in packs and spending time around humans and shifters alike. He's never been fond of petting, though, finding the touch too much to bear for too long a length of time. His mom used to pin him down with either her wolf paws or her human hands to get the knots and mud out of his fur, and even then he'd try to bite her for it.

Jake’s hands feel nice, finding the tender spots along Morgan’s spine and loosening them. He doesn’t pull on Morgan’s fur, either.

Maggie licks at Morgan’s nose and settles in, chewing on her stuffed toy. Between Jake’s gentle petting and the background noise of the television, Morgan could doze off to sleep right here.

“Thanks for letting me see you in this form,” Jake murmurs. He stops petting Morgan so he can give Maggie a solid scratch behind the ears.

Morgan lifts his head and licks at Jake’s wrist, whuffling softly when Jake startles. Then he puts his head back down in Jake’s lap, settles down, and takes that nap. He’s had an exhausting, emotional day already, and he’s comfortable here. He knows nothing will happen as long as Jake is there, and with that thought in mind he drifts off into a deep sleep.

\--

The Phaneuf trade sucks, but some good things do come out of it--for one, that William Nylander is called up from the Marlies. Morgan is quick to catch on that Nylander is a fox shifter, and from there it doesn’t take long for Willy to figure out Morgan’s own wolf form.

Morgan isn’t far off of being a rookie himself, but Willy seems to have declared himself Morgan’s rookie, much to Jake’s eternal amusement.

“You’ve been saying the Leafs have been lacking shifters,” Jake says.

Morgan picks a few stray strands of fox fur and a dead mouse out of his gear bag. He dangles the mouse by its tail in Jake’s general direction. “At which point can I tell him he can stop bringing me gifts?”

Jake wrinkles his nose at the mouse. “Once he’s integrated into the team. He’s our rising star, haven’t you heard? William Nylander, gonna be the savior of the Leafs.”

“We’re coming in dead last,” Morgan says flatly. “And he’s stolen all of my socks. I don’t even know where he’s putting them.”

Jake snorts. “Aww, the rookie has a crush.”

From across the room, Willy flips them off. He’s clustered in with a handful of the other call-ups who’ve been bouncing in and out of the Leafs orbit since the big trade. Morgan’s been making a point to recognize the shifters. Connor Brown is a solid forward for the Marlies who can shift into a very grumpy looking Pallas cat; Kasperi Kapanen shows flashes of brilliance and spends as much time in his lynx form as he does human skin; William Nylander is, of course, a fox; rumor has it that Zach Hyman can shift into a bird of some sort, but he’s close-lipped about what kind, if he can actually shift at all. It’s a surprisingly large contingent, considering that Morgan is the only one on the permanent Leafs roster with any magical ability at all.

“Rookie needs to _return my socks_.”

“Order more on Amazon!” Nylander calls with a shocking amount of disrespect. “And get some color variety!”

“I swear I was scared of the vets until my sophomore season,” Morgan mutters to Jake, and then “can I borrow a clean pair of socks?” because there are none in his bag anymore.

The rest of the season is really the team starting to gel under Babcock's leadership. The Phaneuf trade hit the vets hard, but the new kids stepping in don’t have that same attachment to older systems. Nylander, in particular, doesn’t have the weight of constant losing seasons dragging him down, and he’s determined to haul the Leafs to a respectable finish this season.

Once they started getting called up, Nylander and the other rookies started congregating at Morgan’s house. It was primarily the handful of shifters who staked out positions on Morgan’s couch, but a few of the humans started tagging along too--Viktor Loov and Connor Carrick among them.

The night they’re mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, Nylander shows up with a stack of pizza boxes and a pile of call-ups, and Morgan resigns himself to handling a pile of upset teenagers and almost-teenagers.

It doesn't quite turn out that way. Jake shows up too, and they all end up marathoning the Indiana Jones movies. Morgan sinks into the couch with Jake’s legs in his lap. Maggie is curled up on her blanket and enjoying the hell out of some scratches from Carrick and Hyman. Kapanen, Loov, and Nylander are all visibly texting. Brown keeps shooting Jake and Morgan these weird looks like he’s trying to figure them out, _and_ he’s hogging all the popcorn.

Even so, it’s an evening reminiscent of pack nights at home, where everyone congregates together and just exists.

Morgan eats an uncomfortable amount of pizza and falls asleep on the couch, promising himself he’ll still make the best out of the last few games they’ll get this season, mathematically eliminated from the playoffs or not.

\--

Despite how bad the Leafs were, Morgan got invited to both the 2016 IIHF World Championship and the 2016 World Cup of Hockey. He supposes it’s a compliment that Team Canada think he’s good enough to represent Canada internationally even with everything that had gone wrong with the season.

Morgan had gotten invited to play for Team North America in the 2016 World Cup of Hockey in late February and he’d happily accepted, but he didn’t really think about it much until May. The initial rounds of the tournament weren’t scheduled to start until September and even team-building events and training weren’t scheduled until August. When he’d been invited, there had still been two months left of the regular season, plus playoffs, and Worlds in Russia in May.

Morgan can handle one thing at a time, and right now that one thing is Worlds. He doesn’t have the brain space to follow the Stanley Cup Finals--other than realizing his captain at Worlds won’t be Crosby, whose Penguins are battering their way towards a Cup--or the draft buzz. Whoever wins the Cup will win the Cup, and whoever they get in the draft, they’ll get in the draft.

Off-seasons are off-seasons for a reason, in Morgan’s mind. They’re not about avoiding hockey, necessarily, but about recovering from the previous season and recharging for the upcoming one. On the other hand, he doesn’t exactly get a lot of time off between the end of the Leafs season and heading out for Russia to play for Team Canada.

Jake agrees to housesit and--more importantly--Maggie-sit for however long Morgan will be gone. At a minimum, Morgan will be in Russia for two weeks, if Team Canada flames out in the quarterfinals. At maximum, it’ll be closer to a whole month, if they make it to the finals.

The house, as it turns out, has a major plumbing issue on the second floor that doesn’t become apparent until a year after Morgan has bought the house. Morgan’s living space on the ground floor--thank _god_ the kitchen and the master bathroom are unaffected--but the end result is Morgan calling plumbers, Jake, and his contractor the morning he’s scheduled to fly out to Russia.

“Breathe,” Jake says when he shows up. He has two cups of coffee, one of which Morgan immediately grabs from his hands.

Jake hasn’t been up since three-forty-six in the morning dealing with a surprise flood. Jake’s coffee-maker probably still works. Jake doesn’t still have to pack and make a phone call to Connor McDavid. Jake’s house isn’t in the middle of self-destructing.

“Okay,” Jake says, and Morgan realizes he’s said all of that aloud. Jake takes Morgan by the shoulders and steers him to sit on the couch.

Maggie follows them and deposits her favorite toy on Morgan’s lap. Her head is a heavy, comforting weight on his knees.

“Okay,” Jake says again. “Tell me, in three sentences or less, what happened.”

Morgan’s good at handling normal adult things like paying bills on time and eating healthily; Jake is good at Morgan.

Morgan sucks in a deep breath and says “Plumber apparently didn’t do his job correctly on the second floor. Upstairs bathroom flooded when a pipe ruptured. Entire wall behind the tile is crumbling and moldy from a hidden leak, and I don't even want to _think_ about the carpeting.”

Jake nodded. “Right. What needs to be done? Three sentences or less.”

“Uh, call emergency cleaner to get rid of the flood and the mold, and the plumber to fix the pipes, and the contractor to rip out and reconstruct the damaged wall--and oh, fuck, a new inspection, if the last one missed this--and oh, Christ, probably the vet, if the mold’s gotten to Maggie--”

“Moose. Breathe with me,” Jake interrupted. “In, out, take it slow. What else is going on?”

“Getting Maggie over to your place so you can mind her while I'm gone. Meeting up with the rest of Team Canada to fly out to Moscow.”

“Time’s your flight?”

Morgan takes a deep breath and strokes Maggie’s ears. “Seven tonight.”

“Out of Pearson?”

“Yeah.”

Jake rubs a hand down Morgan’s back. “Right. You’ve been up since four? Have you eaten at all?”

Morgan shakes his head.

“Okay, then. I’ll do immediate damage control and phone calls. You get some food in you, get your bags packed, and take a nap. Deep breaths. It’s bad timing, that’s all. We’ll get it handled.”

That’s how Morgan ends up at the kitchen table with an enormous bowl of Frosted Flakes that he definitely didn’t keep stocked in the kitchen while Jake uses Morgan’s laptop and the landline to start calling around.

“Where did these come from?” Morgan demands when Jake goes on hold.

“I keep them here in case of Morgan-gets-the-sads,” Jake explains, then seems to get taken off hold.

_“Morgan-gets-the-sads?”_

Jake shushes him and says clearly, “yes, hi, my name’s Morgan Rielly and I’ve had a flood at my house this morning and--yes, okay, it’s a second-floor bathroom and I think a pipe burst? Ah, no, lived here about a year. No, we haven’t used your services before--yeah, Morgan Rielly--It’s spelled R-I-E-L-L-Y.”

“Liar,” Morgan mouths, and then stuffs a spoonful of sugary cereal in his mouth when Jake wrinkles his nose at Morgan.

“Yeah, about three-thirty this morning. Mmhm. Yeah, we shut off the water--hang on, let me check--” Jake covers his phone with his hand and asks Morgan. “When was the house built?”

“1980s, but the bathroom was redone in 1997,” Morgan says promptly.

Jake repeats the information back to whoever’s on the other end of the line. After a few general hems and haws, he rattles off the address and his own phone number. “You’ll be here in an hour? Great. Anything we should do until you get here, or--yeah, okay. Thanks. Mm-hm. Yeah. See you then.”

Jake hangs up and beams at Morgan. “See? I’ve got it handled.”

Morgan scowls. “We still have to call the contractor and the plumber--”

Jake flaps his hand at Morgan. “You, go pack for Russia. I will handle it.”

Morgan could argue more, but Jake says he’s got it handled, so Morgan will choose to believe him. His other option is not believing him and letting everything turn into a nightmare and a half, so he goes with the better option and packs his bags.

\--

Despite the odds, Morgan makes it to Pearson with time to spare and the flood in his house under control. Jake somehow convinced Connor Brown to drive Morgan to the airport while Jake himself handles the emergency repairs. It’s not great for Morgan’s blood pressure, but it does end up making it manageable.

He meets up with his Team Canada teammates in the waiting lounge; mostly everyone is clumped together with their NHL teammates, those that have NHL teammates also on Team Canada, that is. McDavid looks entirely like a teenager texting in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, leaning on Talbot’s shoulder while Hall has his feet in Talbot’s lap and is clearly trying to sleep. The guys from the Canucks--Hutton and Tanev--have staked out a few seats and are talking quietly with Domi and Gallagher. He recognizes Marchand and Perry having an intense conversation over by the ticketing counter.

Morgan can’t quite pick out who’s not there yet, but he does see a seat next to Pickard that’s unoccupied.

Pickard grunts a hello but seems deeply invested in the book he’s reading, which is about what Morgan was hoping for. He needs a little time to recover and get his head in order, and he’s exhausted from the day he’s already had.

The players who are missing filter in, along with the coaching staff. He knows some guys will take later flights due to previous commitments, and at least a handful of the support staff are already in Russia preparing for their arrival. Even so, the majority of the team is here, and Morgan is starting to get excited for the hockey they’re going to play together.

The flight is long, and Morgan is seated at the window next to McDavid, who promptly puts a sleep mask on and falls asleep before they even take off, despite Hall and Domi in the seats immediately behind them. Morgan’s a little impressed, honestly. He texts Jake that he’s made it to the plane and gets a photo of Maggie in reply before he powers his phone down and settles in to try to get some sleep himself.

\--

Morgan spends the first twelve hours that he’s in Russia going through customs, riding a bus through alarmingly dense and fast traffic, and face planting into a hotel mattress for a halfway decent sleep that isn’t on Connor McDavid’s shoulder. When he wakes up, it’s morning in Russia and Morgan’s body is profoundly confused and starving hungry.

His roommate is still sleeping, buried under a pile of duvets and pillows, so Morgan leaves a note on top of the hotel alarm clock, takes his phone and his Team Canada hoodie, and goes in search of breakfast.

There were a few of the guys set up in the conference room reserved for Team Canada, all looking as groggy as Morgan feels. They were all used to flying across the continent on a regular basis for the NHL, but transAtlantic flights were an entirely different beast.

Morgan collects a plate of breakfast food--Team Canada is pretty good about feeding their players decent food that Morgan can actually stomach in large quantities. He finds a spot at a large rectangular table that is otherwise empty and settles in.

He has a barrage of text messages to go through, the majority of which are from Jake, being pictures of Maggie in a collection of bandanas and hats. Maggie looks long-suffering, but there is definitely a bag of treats sitting on Morgan’s kitchen table in at least three of the photos, so she probably isn't suffering too badly.

Morgan saves the best of them and texts Jake back, an update that he was back into the land of the living and having breakfast.

Jake immediately calls him. “It’s eleven at night here,” he says as soon as the line connects. His face is comfortingly familiar, even over the grainy Facetime connection. “What time is it for you?”

Morgan checks his phone clock. “Uh, six am. I still feel like I could sleep another twelve hours, honestly, but we have a team meeting later.”

“You should probably go to that.” Jake yawns, stretching and slumping deeper into Morgan’s couch. “I mean, you could not and Team Canada could lose, and give Team USA the advantage.”

“Fuck you, you better be cheering for me.”

Jake grins. “I’m cheering for Team USA, obviously. Proud American, here.”

“You should cheer for Team Canada,” Mo argues. He takes a bite of toast. “I'm on it.”

“What kind of traitor to my country do you think I am?”

“The kind who's going to cheer for his best friend.”

“They finally let Maggie play hockey?” Jake grins even wider and whistles for Maggie. A few seconds later she trots into frame, wearing an American flag bandana around her neck. “Mags! You've been called up!”

Morgan gapes a little. “What have you done to my dog?”

“I introduced her to proper patriotism,” Jake says, wearing the kind of shit-eating grin that makes rookies take cover. “Look, I even got her a little hat.”

The hat is red, white, and blue, and entirely hideous. Maggie looks mournful as Jake attaches it to her head. She’s too well-behaved to paw it off her head, but Morgan can practically feel her begging him to remove it through the FaceTime connection.

Morgan shakes his head and takes a bite of veggie omelet. “How’s the house?” He’s distracted for a moment by Marchand and Perry sitting down with full plates; he greets them with a nod of the head.

“We got the pipe patched temporarily--good enough until the plumber can come on Tuesday. You’d think throwing around the fact that you play on the Leafs would get a plumber faster than seventy-two hours after an incident, but apparently not.” Jake scritches at Maggie’s rump; she looks torn between loving the scratches and hating the hat. “The contractor’s coming tomorrow and she’ll get us a price estimated based on how much damage there is, with a guesstimate on how much the plumber is going to have to redo.”

“Why does home ownership suck so much?” Morgan groans. He forks up another bite of eggs and shovels it into his mouth. “Why’d I let you talk me into this house?”

“You and Mags love this house,” Jake counters. “Anyways, I’ll let you go--your teammates probably want to see more of you than the back of your phone.”

Morgan hangs up and realizes the room is a little fuller than it had been when he sat down; a good third of the team is there, and he can see another handful of guys picking up food and heading their way. A couple of the guys have settled at nearby tables and are working their way through breakfast and politely listening to either McDavid and Hall bickering over if ketchup belongs on eggs or Morgan’s own phone conversation.

“Roommate issues?” Corey Perry asks, rather politely. It’s still a little weird to be playing with Perry instead of against him.

Morgan grimaces. “House issues. A pipe burst and the bathroom flooded twelve hours before my flight here.”

There were a couple of guys at the table next to them who grimace--Talbot and Brassard in particular. Morgan recognizes them as the older guys with a little more homeowning experience.

“You gonna be okay?” Brassard is leaning over to get a better look at Morgan. “Or--is your house going to be okay? You don’t have a wife at home to fix everything, do you?”

“One of my teammates is house sitting while I’m gone, so he’s--yeah, he’s handling a lot of it. It’s still gonna be a mess when I get back, though.”

“Is it going to mess with your game?” Perry asks.

Morgan shakes his head. “No, it’s just stressful and annoying. Jake’s good people, though, and he’s at my house more often than not anyways.”

“Jake Gardiner?”

Morgan blinks in surprise, not having expected Brassard to know Jake was Morgan’s housesitter. “Yes?”

“He played for the US last year, didn’t he?”

“And the year before,” Morgan confirms. “You’ve met him?”

Brassard quirks a smile. “Only in passing and during games. He’s a good guy?”

“My best friend.”

Perry nods, a knowing look on his face. “Then he’ll handle your house for you and you can keep your focus on winning here, alright?”

Morgan nods and sets to finishing his breakfast.

\--

The tournament goes by in a blur. Team Canada keeps winning, and honestly, Morgan loves playing with these guys. He knows in a few months some of them will be his teammates on Team North America, and others will be his opponents for Team Canada during the World Cup, but it’s good playing with them in the here and now.

Their stay in Russia keeps getting extended as they keep winning, and through it all Morgan keeps Facetiming Jake to check in on the house and Maggie. Jake always has a good story to tell or a comment on how Morgan’s been playing so far, so it’s good to talk to him. The other guys on the team side-eye Morgan a little for talking to an American so much, but Jake is Morgan’s favorite person, and he’s currently in custody of Maggie, Morgan’s favorite animal. He’s gonna talk to his best friend, and it’s not like the other guys aren’t always talking to their wives and girlfriends anyways.

Winning the gold medal, though, that’s an experience Morgan can’t just blur through. It’s not just another game, it’s not just another chance--they win it, and Morgan has a gold medal and a pile-on of hugs from his teammates, and an MVP award from Team Canada. It’s amazing and Morgan will forget exactly none of it, even the part where he barely got back to the hotel before shifting into a wolf and letting his whole body shake with the force of his excitement.

He’s hungover as hell on the plane home, but so are the rest of the guys. It’s nothing a metric fuckton of sleep and a few gallons of Gatorade won’t fix, anyway.

Jake and Maggie meet him at the airport, so Morgan has the dubious honor of introducing Jake to a mostly-hungover Team Canada.

“Morgan talked about you a lot,” McDavid says, reaching out to shake Jake’s hand. “S’good to meet you for real.”

Jake grins and hauls Morgan in for a hug. “Yeah? You missed me?” He busses a kiss onto the top of Morgan’s head before Morgan can push him away, laughing.

“I missed Maggie more, but mostly I liked kicking Team USA’s ass to bring home a gold medal.”

Jake stuck out his tongue and turned to polite small talk with a few of the other guys who’d drifted over. They all had to wait until oversize baggage came through anyway, so they could pick up their gear bags.

Whatever the case, Morgan’s bag comes through sooner rather than later. He says goodbye to the guys, hiking his gear bag over his shoulder and letting Jake manage his roller bag. Maggie has been appreciating attention from McDavid, but she trots over when Morgan whistles.

Jake’s brought Morgan’s own car to pick Morgan up, but that’s mostly because Morgan’s car has the setup for Maggie while Jake’s doesn’t. They pitch the gear in the trunk and get Maggie settled in the backseat. Jake drives because Morgan is completely wiped from the flight.

“Congratulations,” Jake says, once they’re out of the parking lot. “Mr. Gold Medalist.”

“It’s a good feeling.”

“I bet. What’re you going to do now? Got some time before your next big tournament.”

“Probably going to work on the second floor,” Morgan says honestly. “It’s a mess and I’ve got to get it done.”

“Fair enough.” Jake turns them onto the highway and Maggie barks from the backseat. “Let me know if you need help.”

“I probably will,” Morgan admits.

The four rooms on the second floor had mostly been left alone during Morgan's first year in the house. He’d gotten one of them turned into a guest room and another into the beginnings of an office, but he’d spent the season focusing on playing hockey and making tweaks to the ground floor living quarters, the ones he spent the majority of his time in. His home gym still needed improvement, but Morgan was fairly happy with how the living room and master bedroom had turned out.

The water damage from the burst pipe had to be fixed, and while Jake had handled the immediate cleanup so it wouldn’t get worse, the bathroom and the guest bedroom needed fixing and redecorating. The office had never been fully finished anyways, and the other two rooms on the second floor needed decorating to begin with. All that combined made for a good summer project to fill Morgan’s time between Worlds and the World Cup, even if he was going for training camps with some of the Team North America guys somewhat regularly.

It wasn’t a bad couple of months. Morgan liked working out and building shelves, snuggling Maggie and managing a group chat that William Nylander had put together of the Leafs-affiliated shifters. A handful of magic-oriented partners and spouses had made their way into the chat as well--notably Lexi Solofra, Cees’ girlfriend and a witch.

Morgan didn't know a lot of witches, and they were as a rule pretty private. As far as he knew Lexi was pretty standard as witches went, with an affinity for a particular element and the spark necessary to make potions or charms work. Morgan knew it was an inherited thing and there was some sort of genetic blood marker that identified witches, but beyond that, he was pretty clueless.

“It’s just another way of being inhuman,” Lexi says one of the nights she and Cees come over for dinner. Lexi and Cees primarily spend their summers in Chicago, where they grew up, but like most of the team, Cees had commitments that required him to return to Toronto. “I make an excellent bruise balm for Connor.”

Cees looks up from the salad he's tossing. “She’s right, it's the best.”

Morgan still can't believe he got kicked out of his own kitchen by a guest. On the other hand, Cees is definitely a better cook than either Morgan or Jake.

“I’ll drop off a pot for you and Jake next time we’re in Toronto,” Lexi adds. She’s sitting at the table, sipping at her glass of wine. “We don’t run in packs, but that’s just because covens have such a negative connotation, you know? And with the skill set of the modern witch, you don’t really need a coven for power reinforcement. What am I going to do with more power? Make hair dye last longer?”

“To be fair,” Cees starts.

Lexi rolls her eyes. “I don’t do much with it, but it’s the same as you and shifting, right? It’s on all my medical paperwork. I have to be super careful with antibiotics.”

“Sorry I’m late!” The front door slams. Maggie runs to greet Jake, hurtling across the kitchen from her dog bed to the front hallway. “Are they already here?”

“Yes,” Cees calls back. “Don’t worry about it, the chicken is still cooking.”

Jake appears in the kitchen doorway, Maggie trailing behind him hopefully. “Uh, I thought Morgan was cooking.”

“I thought so too,” Morgan says dryly. “I’ve been overruled.”

“Why? Moose is a great cook. He does dinner for me all the time.”

Cees and Lexi exchange a glance. It’s clearly a comfortable look between them, something from a relationship well-worn with time.

“Next time Morgan will have to cook.” Cees points the salad tongs he’s using at Jake and shakes them, faux-angrily. “But I’m holding you accountable if it’s shit.”

Morgan rolls his eyes. “Can I cook now?”

Cees turns his tongs on Morgan. “No, you’ll do it wrong.”

Morgan gives up and settles in next to Lexi at the table. Jake is still darting skeptical looks at Cees’ salad, though he’s mostly switched his attention to Maggie.

It’ll be a good evening, Morgan thinks, with good people. He’s glad he has this house to invite people over to; the apartment he shared with Jake had just been a little too small to really have anyone over. Here, he could invite half the team over and still have room for the other half.

He offers Jake a sip from his wineglass so he can see if it’s the kind of wine he likes, and gets up to get Jake a glass when Jake gives Morgan a nod of approval.

“How long until dinner?” Morgan pours the glass, making sure he stays out of range of Cees’ salad tongs.

“It’ll be ready when it’s ready.” Connor sounds peevish, so Morgan just returns to the table with Jake’s wineglass and settles in to wait for the long haul.

\--

Time always seems to go quicker the faster the season approaches, and before Morgan knows it he’s packing up for Quebec so he can play the first pre-tournament game against Team Europe with Team North America. There’s not a lot of unknown qualities on the team--most of them are guys Morgan has played with or against, with the exception of Auston Matthews. It’s kind of important too, being as they’ll be teammates in the fall. First overalls rarely get sent back to develop more, and Morgan knows a lot is riding on this kid, so he’s got his eyes open when he meets Auston for the first time.

The first thing Morgan realizes about Auston Matthews is that he’s exactly as good at hockey as everyone says he is. The second thing Morgan realizes is that Auston Matthews plays his cards close to his chest. That’s probably why Morgan doesn’t realize Auston Matthews is a shifter until after their game against Team Europe in Quebec where Matthews shifts into a coyote in the locker room.

“Oh, shit,” someone says from across the room when the full-sized coyote starts barreling around the room.

Morgan has met a couple of coyote shifters in his life, but he knows their social customs are a little different than wolf customs. They're often a little more wary, a little more suspicious of merging into a larger group once they've reached adulthood.

Matthews’ coyote body is long-limbed with big paws, closer to a teenager than an adult. The word _wag_ doesn't quite describe what his tail is doing, but it's definitely doing something. Matthews circles the room, nudging up against other players and yipping excitedly.

When Matthews reaches Morgan, it's easy to step into his own wolf skin and drop into a playful wrestling match. He's exhausted from the game they just played, but it's always worth it to play with a friend and teammate after a win to let some of that joy out.

Their teammates skirt around them, letting Morgan and Matthews play. A minute later, Gaudreau tumbles into their pile in a fluffy German Shepherd shift.

Part of Morgan is glad for the excuse to tumble into his wolf skin, but part of him is a little worried for Matthews. He's the youngest on the team, and shifting when your emotions are high is a little childish. It's been kind of obvious that Matthews wants to prove he belongs here, when everyone had been doubting his place on this team, and something like this must feel embarrassing for him.

Either that or Matthews truly gives no fucks. Morgan files it away to discuss with Jake later and instead goes to harass Matt Murray.

When Matthews shifts back a little while later, his cheeks are red with embarrassment. He looks away from everyone as a few chirps are launched his way.

Morgan stays in wolf skin a little longer, but they do have to head back to the hotel sooner rather than later and he still has to shower and pack his stuff up to be shipped out to Pittsburgh for their next game.

“Didn't know you were a shifter,” he says to Matthews once he's back on two legs and rummaging through his gear bag for his toiletries kit. “Toronto's a good place for it.”

Matthews looks dubious. “Yeah, okay.”

“Seriously, there's--two of us from the roster last year, and a bunch of guys from the AHL who look good to make it up this year. It'll be fun.” Morgan claps Auston on the shoulder. “But we don't have any coyotes yet, I don't think.”

“Can I ask who in the Leafs?” Matthews flushes a deeper shade of red. “Sorry, that's probably rude--”

Morgan waves it off. “No worries. William Nylander’s a fox shifter--keeps stealing my socks, and I'm sure he'll go for yours.” Morgan rattles off the rest of the guys that he knows about, and ends with a shrug. “Steer clear of Hyman’s talons and you'll be fine.”

“So--not Gardiner?” Matthews asks. He looks more curious than embarrassed now, so Morgan's gonna chalk this one up in the win column. Then what Matthews asked actually registers.

“Jake? No, he's as human as you can get.” Morgan blinks at Matthews. “Why do you ask?”

“It's just--you're always on the phone with him? And you talk about him all the time, so I thought--I dunno, you were both shifters.”

“Nah, he's just my guy.” Morgan stands up and grabs for his towel. “Alright, we really gotta clean up, because I am not bussing back to the hotel smelling like this.”

Matthews gathers up his stuff as well, but they’re ambushed by McDavid and Gaudreau when they’re only halfway across the locker room.

“If the rest of the tournament is anything like this, we've got it in the bag,” McDavid says. His grin is contagious as he ruffles Matthew's hair. “That assist was _sick,_ Matts.”

“Toronto,” Johnny croons, slinging an arm around Morgan. He still smells kind of like wet dog, but it's not like that's a scent Morgan is unused to. “You gonna put us up, Mo?”

“If any of you show up at my house, I’m killing you and burying you under the rose bushes,” Morgan says seriously.

Auston Matthews still shows up at Morgan’s house when the tournament proper shows up in Toronto, but Morgan can’t really bring himself to be angry about that.

By training camp, Matthews has become Auston and he has belongings scattered all over Morgan's living room along with far too much coyote fur. He's made fast friends with the other shifters who congregate there, and Morgan can't really complain about having more people over. It's what he bought the big house for, after all.

\--

Morgan's house still isn't done by the start of the 2016 season, so he doesn't billet a rookie. A 23-year-old wouldn't normally billet anyways, but there are three extenuating circumstances: they’re down a formal captain, there are seven rookies this year, and most of them are shifters of some sort. If his house had been finished--or at least if the second floor hadn't been in the middle of a total replumbing and redecoration--Morgan definitely would have billeted at least one of them, being the only shifter on the team with any kind of seniority at all.

That doesn't stop the assortment of rookies from camping out at his unfinished house from the start of the season, just like they had over the summer.

He’s not sure which one starts the Captain Morgan teasing, but he’d appreciate if it stopped. It’d be an honor to wear the C for Toronto, but he’s not an idiot. He knows they want it to go to a franchise player, a star like Auston is going to be. Morgan can’t afford to have any expectations of getting handed the captaincy, just like he can’t let himself experience crushing disappointment when he doesn’t get it.

The fact is that Toronto doesn't have a captain, and there’s a batch of rookies looking to fit in. There's also the small fact that half the team started in one system, headed by Dave Nonis and Randy Carlyle, and the newer players, acquired under Babs and Lou. Morgan wouldn't go so far as to say there's a rift in the team, but there is certainly an old guard that congregates at Leivo’s home and a new guard who shows up at Morgan's. It’s the guys who are resigned to the Leafs being terrible, and the guys who think they’re going to be the ones to change it all.

There’s a layer of tension that no one is acknowledging, and Morgan is sure it’s going to boil over sooner rather than later. He’s right in the middle of the two groups: he and Jake are more likely to spend time with the rookies, but Jake has been on the team for a while now.

Morgan does his best to toe that line, and Jake follows suit. It seems, like always, Jake will follow where Morgan leads.

The season is totally different from the year before. It feels like there's actually something worth celebrating when they win, like they're going to make it to the playoffs and not just by the skin of their teeth.

That's the other difference between the new guard and the old; the newer guys are more willing to go out and celebrate. The older guys prefer to go home.

Morgan will go out with the younger guys--he’s 22 and a hockey player, of _course_ he goes out--but he doesn’t love it as much as Jake does. Jake has always loved going out and being around new people, soaking up attention at a bar or club as much as he does in the middle of a game.

It would appear that their rookie class, however, has even Jake beat when it comes to enthusiasm about going out. It’s frankly impressive.

They’re at a lower-key bar, the rookies planning to go out to a club later while the older guys head home. Morgan’s not really sure if he’ll be going with the younger guys or the older guys yet; he’s got a plate of nachos and a fantastic IPA to finish first before he makes any decisions.

He’s about to pick a fight with Marty about what makes the best nacho toppings when Mitch returns to the table, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Gards is flirting with some girl,” he reports.

Auston isn’t far behind Mitch, stumbling into the booth when he fails to slow down in time. Morgan is having a hard time believing this is the same rookie wonder who managed four goals in his first game

Morgan pauses with his drink halfway to his mouth when it becomes clear Mitch and Auston are waiting for his response. “What?”

“You’re fine with your boyfriend hooking up with some random girl?”

“He’s...not my boyfriend?”

Everyone at the table gives Morgan a disbelieving look.

“No, seriously. We used to be road roomies. As long as he practices road hookup rules--which shouldn’t matter since he has his own apartment--it’s not my business.”

“You’re not--” Auston stops, reconsiders, and starts again. “You smell like each other. Like, all the time.”

“We lived together for two years, and he’s at my place all the time. Plus we, you know, work together? Not surprising we have some scent overlap.”

“You buy each other lunch all the time?”

“We’re bros. It’ll even out eventually.”

Jake flops into the booth next to Morgan, sweaty and grinning. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Jake steals a sip of Morgan’s beer, makes a face, and glances around the table. “Why’s everyone so serious?”

Morgan snorts. “The rookies think you’re cheating on me.”

Jake looks offended. “I don't cheat. Jesus, really? She was at a bachelorette party and asked me what I was drinking, and then she had tips for laying carpet. Try being friends with a girl sometime.”

The various rookies all look away, muttering apologies. It isn’t until they’re on the way home that Morgan realizes Jake never denied that they were dating.

\--

Morgan wakes up on the couch, a weird chirping sound and his suddenly cold toes jolting him into wakefulness. He peers over the edge of the couch to find a fox and a lynx playing tug of war with his socks.

“I'm going to kill you both,” Morgan mutters and reaches for the throw blanket over the back of the couch. He didn’t drink enough the night before to be truly hungover but he definitely hasn’t gotten enough sleep, his head feels foggy from waking up abruptly, and he’s pretty sure Willy and Kappy didn’t come home with him last night. He’s not sure how they got into his house either, which makes him vaguely worried about his security system. That’s a worry for when his head feels less like it’s filled with marshmallows.

Willy and Kappy simultaneously whine and drop the socks. One of them--Willy, with his soft canine tongue--licks at his hand when he burrows back into the couch. He thinks Kappy yips at Willy to leave Morgan alone, but there’s a soft weight on his hip and a small body curling up against his chest, and Morgan drifts back off to sleep.

When he wakes up again, the fox and lynx are gone and so are his socks, but Jake is tucking the throw blanket around him more thoroughly.

“Willy and Kappy are naked in your kitchen,” Jake murmurs.

“Tell ‘em to keep their bare asses off my counter.” Morgan reaches up for Jake, almost second guessing himself. “Come cuddle.”

Jake acquiesces because he’s awesome. It’s a tight fit for both of them to wedge in, but they manage. The TV is playing a documentary on precogs, and Morgan only half watches, more cognizant of the way Jake plays with Morgan’s hair.

“I love you,” Morgan drowses. Jake just keeps petting at Morgan's hair, and nothing changes.

\--

Matt Martin is the one who brings it up, the fact that Morgan is starting to fall into a pack alpha role.

“So is membership in your pack invitation only? I'm a bit insulted you haven’t invited me to join.”

Morgan gives him a confused look, halfway through pulling his socks off so he can get to the showers. If he doesn’t hurry, he’ll have to shower at the same time as Naz, who likes to sing loudly. “What pack?”

Matt’s jaw drops. “You’re joking.”

More players than just Morgan are staring at Matt now. It’s Naz who actually comes out and asks. “What the fuck, Marty?”

Matt starts pointing out their teammates. Morgan's stomach sinks, realizing how accurate each of Matt’s observations were. “Alpha-Morgan. Omega-Auston. Kappy, Willy, and Gards have either delta- or beta-rank, and so do the Connors. Mitch is your witch. Come on, you can’t tell me you _accidentally_ made a pack out of every guy here under twenty-five. Your house smells so solidly of pack I was starting to wonder why you weren't officially affiliated with the team.”

Morgan stops to think about it.

Gards doesn’t live with Morgan, but he’s over enough that his human-scent has soaked into the house itself. The couch smells so deeply like JVR and his stupidly fluffy tail that Morgan's not sure he’ll ever get it out. The kitchen smells faintly of Cees, as human as he is. Kappy has a favorite armchair, and Morgan's about 80% certain Willy’s been hiding everyone’s socks in the guest bedroom Mitch favors. Auston has eaten everything in Morgan's fridge at least twice. Hyms started a communal grocery list the first time he was over.

It’s all so clearly the beginnings of a pack house that Morgan wonders how the hell he missed it.

“Oh, fuck,” he says. “Do you think anyone else has noticed?”

Marty gives him a sympathetic look, which is the only answer Morgan needs.

\--

Morgan does the only thing he can think to do and invites all the members of his pseudo pack over for a meeting.

Marty clearly thinks it’s proving his point, and Morgan can’t say he disagrees. It was hard to see how everyone was claiming a spot in Morgan's house until they were all there together.

Everyone gravitates toward a favored spot in Morgan's too-big-for-a-single-guy living room. Cees sprawls out on the short arm of the L-shaped couch, only to have his legs shoved aside for Zach to plop down next to him. Freddie and Brownie claim spots on the rest of the couch with Marty between them and Cees, and everyone else starts dragging in chairs from the kitchen or shuffling hassocks around for a better view of the only unoccupied chair in the room: Morgan's plush armchair.

Morgan swears they’re doing this to fuck with him. He coughs awkwardly, then goes to claim his seat. There’s quiet small talk between everyone as the last handful of people show up. Auston appears not long after Morgan's settled in and perches on the arm of Morgan's chair. Mitch isn’t far behind, and he opts to sit on the floor and lean against Auston’s legs.

All told, there are about fifteen people in Morgan's living room: the full rookie class, a handful of slightly older Leafs, and a smattering of Marlies who just kind of appeared.

Morgan blames Jake for whatever text message chain summoned everyone to his house. Once everyone is settled, they all turn to stare at him expectantly.

“So,” he says. “We seem to have, uh, made a pack. I’m really sorry about that, but I guess we get to figure out where to go from here.”

Mitch honest to God raises his hand. “I just want to point out that there is no fucking way that I’m a witch..”

Across the room, Marty shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. You stink of witch.”

Mitch squawks. “I do not.”

Willy pipes up. “You ever get tested for it?”

“Why the _fuck_ would I have gotten tested for _magic_ \--”

“I dunno, does everyone in your family have defective noses--”

Morgan rubs at his forehead.

“I'm still trying to figure out how I'm an omega, apparently,” Auston cuts in. “Aren't those usually married--or mated, whatever--to the alpha? I'm not into Mo, even a little bit.”

Willy shrugs. “My mom is Alpha of our family pack, and once she was old enough, my older sister assumed Omega role. Before that, it was my aunt. It's not normally a couple.”

Auston still looks dubious. “Really.”

“Yeah. It's--Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End.”

“Yin and Yang,” Marty offers. “You didn't grow up in a pack?”

Auston shakes his head. “I'm the only shifter in my direct family line. I never clicked with anyone in Michigan or Switzerland, or whatever.”

“Pack dynamics crash course, then.” Morgan braces his elbows on his knees. “An Alpha is a pack leader, as you probably guessed. It's not a biological imperative or anything. Think of it as your captain. It's someone the team--or the pack--trusts and respects.” He quirks a smile. “So thanks for that, I guess.”

Marns looks fascinated. The other humans in the room--Reemer and Cees in particular--look more confused than interested. Auston is staring Morgan down, which is a little uncomfortable.

He continues. “An Alpha can lose their position, or be stripped of it if the pack loses trust. If I did something that endangered, say, Kappy--”

Across the room, Kappy casually flipped Morgan off.

“--and you lost respect for me, the pack would either shift leadership to someone more trustworthy, or function without an alpha. An alpha’s job is to support the pack in whatever they need. Think of the captain who stays late to run extra drills for rookies or has team barbeques to introduce recently traded players around.”

Marty takes over. “The pack’s Omega is the other half of pack leadership. Using Mo’s hockey metaphor, they’d be a co-captain instead of an A. They’re the hardass, usually. If you step out of line and endanger everyone else, the Omega takes you down a few pegs.”

Brownie snorts, shaking his head. “I'm surprised it's not Gards, to be honest with you.”

From across the room, Jake throws a pillow at Brownie and manages to hit Freddie instead. Freddie glares and whacks Brownie with the pillow.

Unrepentant, Jake says “I'll take beta-rank, thanks.”

Brownie takes the pillow and hurls it back. “You're human, you're _delta._ ”

“Beta and delta are both bullshit,” Willy calls. “Come on, it's not the seventeen hundreds.”

“Explain for the humans in the room.” Reemer looks vaguely ready to throw something more solid than a pillow, and Morgan just finished the living room to his satisfaction. They don't need a team-wide wrestling match to round out their day.

“Betas are pack members with an inhuman ability.” Marty shrugs, but there's still a line of tension in his shoulders. “Your shifters and witches. Future seers. Stuff like that.”

“Vampires?”

Hyms scoffs. “Don't be an idiot, everyone knows vampires are a myth. There's no mammal on Earth that could process blood into caloric energy bat an effective rate, and that's not even taking into account blood types. It's not efficient enough.”

Everyone paused to stare at him.

“What? I attended MagSci 101 in college. Not my fault I'm the only one with an education in this room.”

“But mass transformations of shifters somehow works?”

“That's totally different! Trans-dimensional conservation of mass and matter are _totally_ _different_ from biosynthetic processes. It's like ghosts, it just doesn't physically _work_. It'd be like trying to play hockey in _skis_.”

“Anyways,” Marty says. “Betas are the inhuman members of a pack. Mo’s a beta fulfilling the alpha role. Deltas are your wholly human members: Jake is a delta. If we decided to have him as Alpha instead of Mo, he'd be a delta Alpha.”

Auston nods. “And the pack thing?”

“Have none of you seriously been in a new pack?” Matt asks. “Because you’ve formed one here in all but name.”

Morgan sighs deeply. “I never thought to found a pack. There aren’t that many of us.”

Auston snorts. The relatively full room says exactly what Auston means. In the background, Willy and Mitch have picked up their squabble again. Brownie looks highly entertained, while Freddie looks ready to knock their heads together.

“Six of seven rookies have a shift,” Marty points out. “And the team added four more players who have a shift or fulfill pack roles. It got you the numbers over the summer. You had enough for a small pack last year but not the interest, and you developed enough leadership when you got the A to satisfy the alpha-necessity.”

Morgan rolls his eyes. “Okay. I never _meant_ to found a pack, smartass.”

“You don’t have to form a pack,” Matt says carefully. “I think you should, given how far down the road you managed to go accidentally.”

Morgan spreads his hands helplessly. “I can’t make that decision on my own.”

“We could take a vote,” Jake offers.

Morgan buries his face in his hands. “Are we actually doing this?”

Cees chimes in from across the room. “Are like--are girlfriends invited to join the pack, too? Or is this a strictly team thing?”

“Partners and spouses welcome,” Jake says cheerfully. “Maybe Lexi can teach Mitch a few things about being a witch.”

“ _Lexi is a witch_?”

Morgan lifts his head to stare incredulously at Mitch. “What planet have you been living on?”

“Why would I know that? Do you go around telling people you're a wolf?”

“Yes!”

Cees chimes in. “And Lexi gave you her charmed bruise balm! Where did you think she got it?”

Mitch shrugs. “Canadian Tire?”

“I swear to god, Mitch--” Marty says. “Really? _Really_?”

“Can we just take the vote now?” Auston asks, a little plaintively. “Some of us have plans.”

“What, with your hand?”

Auston scowls at JVR. JVR beams at him, unrepentant. Morgan is about to become alpha of a pack of children.

“Vote,” he says loudly. “Those in favor hands up.” Around the room, hands went up with varying degrees of enthusiasm, from an attempt to reach Morgan’s ceiling (Mitch) to a calmly raised single finger (Freddie). “Those opposed?”

Not a single hand is up, so Morgan figures that about settles everything.

“Okay,” Jake says. “Second vote--who wants pizza?”

The living room and kitchen are both messes by the time everyone disperses to go home. Morgan starts tidying up the worst of it--pizza crusts are Maggie’s kryptonite, and she really doesn’t need an illicit midnight snack.

As people filter out, they help tidy a little, but there’s only so much anyone can do until Morgan runs the dishwasher. He could resort to doing dishes by hand, but that’s not exactly his idea of a fun time.

Eventually, it’s just Morgan and Maggie. And Jake, who is refusing to leave until he’s eaten the last of the Hawaiian pizza. He’s sitting cross-legged on Morgan’s floor, trying to hold his pizza crusts out of Maggie’s reach. It doesn’t seem to be going so well.

Morgan starts putting throw pillows back onto the couch where they belong.

“So, a pack, huh?” Jake says. He stuffs half a slice of pizza into his mouth and jerks the rest of the slice away from Maggie’s beseeching eyes. “How do you feel, Mr. Alpha?”

Morgan makes a face and grabs for the big squishy pillow he favors during movie nights. “It’s weird. I always kind of thought I’d be in my family’s pack forever, you know?”

“You can still visit and stuff, right? They’re not gonna cut you off now that you’re in your own pack?”

Morgan snorts. “Uh, yeah, no. There’s no reason I can’t be part of both a family pack and a team pack. What, did you think my mom was going to disown me for having friends who like me?”

Jake shrugs and goes for the rest of the slice. “Not a werewolf, dude, I don’t know anything about anything.”

Morgan decides to take the risk of getting sauce on a throw pillow and lobs one at Jake. It catches Jake dead in the face and startles a yelp out of him.

“Not a werewolf,” Morgan reminds him. “Just a wolf shifter.”

“See? I don’t know anything.” Jake yawns and stretches. “I’m spending the night, by the way. Too tired to drive home.”

Morgan raises a dubious eyebrow. “It’s like 9 pm.”

“And we got bag-skated and had a very emotional team conversation, and I need Morgan cuddles.”

“Suit yourself, then.” Morgan whistles for Maggie. “I’m gonna shower, then take Maggie for her night walk and head to bed.”

Jake shoots Morgan a thumbs up and stands, stretching his arms over his head.

“I have a guest room, you know,” Morgan says when Jake follows Morgan into the master bedroom. “It's got sheets and everything.”

“But stairs,” Jake pleads. “Moose, if you love me--”

”Fine, you whiner.”

Morgan might bitch about it, but he loves having Jake sleep across from him. Sometimes his bed feels too big when he sleeps alone, like he's waiting for someone to fill up the empty space. It's not like that when Jake sleeps over.

\--

Having a pack is kind of incredible. Most of their shifters are relatively solitary creatures, but their human sides are all as sociable as hockey players can be.

Morgan likes carpooling home with Jake--who's at Morgan's house more often than he ever is at his own apartment--and finding other pack members there.

That's not all he finds. Sometimes he goes grocery shopping and comes home to find Jake sleeping on the floor with Maggie and half of the pillows off of Morgan’s bed.

“You have an apartment of your own,” Morgan says when he wakes Jake up.

“But no Maggie.”

“I have beds.”

Jake sits up and points and Morgan. “Look, Moose. Sometimes you just need a floor nap.”

“A floor nap.”

“Yup, a floor nap.” Jake pats the ground next to him. “C’mon, try it.”

A little dubiously, Morgan folds himself up to sit next to Jake. Maggie kicks a little in her sleep, clearly dreaming of chasing something.

The hardwood is solid and cool against him as Jake pulls Morgan to lie down. The pressure is solid against his back, though the pillows are soft. Jake pulls the soft chenille throw over both of them and slings an arm over Morgan's waist, cuddling in close.

“Floor nap,” Jake says happily, breath hot over Morgan’s cheek. For a second, Morgan thinks of kissing Jake, of leaning in and letting their lips brush.

He doesn’t, though, and Jake’s features quickly slacken into sleep. Morgan stretches, pats at Maggie’s rump, and lets himself doze off in that patch of sunlight, tucked up in Jake’s arms.

\--

The playoffs loss is painful. They’d dragged themselves from bottom of the league to a playoffs spot, and were summarily knocked on their asses by the Capitals.

Morgan slumps into the seat next to Jake on the bus from the ACC back to the Mastercard Centre. They’d met there for a pre-game meeting and then bussed into the city proper, wanting to go into this game as a team. All Morgan wants now, though, is to step into his wolf form and sulk.

Jake drives them to Morgan’s house, leaving Morgan’s car at the Mastercard Centre. As soon as they’re inside, Morgan steps into his wolf form, whining pitifully. Maggie seems to sense that something’s wrong, seeing that she immediately drags her favorite toy over to Mo and offers it up.

Morgan takes it and trots over to the couch, burying himself into the corner of the L. Maggie starts bringing him the rest of her toys as if that’ll help.

The rest of the pack seems to have a similar idea for their post-loss grief. Morgan’s barely settled into the couch when they start showing up.

Cees and Lexi are first, as human as they are. Lexi carries a slow cooker. Cees has two bottles of wine and an armful of chip bags. Their dog Hoagie trots along behind, all too happy to see Maggie.

“I’m willing to bet none of you have really eaten since before the game,” Lexi says. Her voice is carefully light as she winds through the living room on the way to the kitchen. “I made buffalo dip.”

Mitch and Auston show up together only a few minutes later, each with armfuls of blankets. Freddie brings three kinds of licorice. Kappy and Willy provide an armful of DVDs, a ridiculous amount of microwave popcorn, and a store bought veggie platter. Brownie actually brings a microwave, which is as baffling as it is kind of sweet. Zach doesn’t even show up in human form, riding in on his girlfriend's shoulder. She has a leather shoulder pad and glove on, but still. Morgan has a healthy fear of those talons.

It takes a while, but the whole pack trickles in. It’s easy to think of the pack as just the players, but their partners are as important as anyone else. It’s easier to grieve together in their big cuddle pile in the middle of Morgan’s living room than it is to wallow alone, and Morgan is so glad for this pack, these people.

\--

Morgan has traveled enough with Jake, shared enough late night flights and hotel rooms to know the quirks of Jake falling asleep. He knows the way Jake will go from tense to limp in a heartbeat as he falls asleep, and how Jake will jolt, limbs flailing a little, as he regains consciousness.

He also knows Jake is wildly not a morning person, and that by moving the electric kettle six inches to the left Jake will stand baffled at the counter for a good five minutes.

It's one of the highlights of Morgan's day. Morgan isn't quite a morning person himself, but Maggie expects a walk followed by breakfast at seven-thirty sharp and will whine incessantly until Morgan complies. He's learned to manage mornings. Jake clearly still has not.

Half the pack is still crashed out in Morgan's living room, though a handful made it to the second-floor guest bedrooms. He thinks Freddie and Marty might have made it home, but he’s not sure.

They have a team meeting later, and the pack will undoubtedly have a meeting of their own afterward. But for now, they sleep, scattered out and recovering from their playoffs exit.

Jake stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. He’s clearly sleep-fogged but he knows his way around Morgan’s kitchen, maybe because he’s spent more time here than in his own apartment in the past year. Jake starts the kettle and pulls Morgan’s French press out of the cupboard along with the bag of fine ground coffee, and starts making Morgan’s coffee before he starts his own mug of tea. He pets Maggie’s ears while he waits for the kettle to boil and startles when he realizes Morgan is there.

Morgan can’t help it. He crosses the kitchen, crowds into Jake’s space, and kisses him.

Jake inhales sharply, then his hands are spanning Morgan’s waist and pulling him impossibly closer. They kiss until the kettle whistles at them. Jake reaches out, flips it off, and hauls Morgan towards the master bedroom.

Jake very firmly shuts Maggie out and presses Morgan against the door, kissing him again.

“Moving a little fast, Jake?” Morgan gets out when Jake goes for his collarbone.

“Been waiting for actual years, Moose,” Jake tells him. He sucks hard at the skin there, and Morgan can practically feel the hickey forming. “I mean--I’m taking you out on a date before anything else, but like. Let me kiss you a bit.”

"Why did it take us so long?" Morgan asks. He examines the lines of Jake’s face as if it holds all the answers.

Jake just shrugs, the movement jostling Morgan a little. “Guess it wasn’t the right time,” he says. He squirms a little, adjusting his grip on Morgan’s waist. “The guys knew, I think.”

“And we didn’t?”

“I always figured it’d be you and me eventually, but you weren’t interested yet. Had to get the house settled first.”

Morgan buries his nose in the collar of Jake’s shirt. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“We were kind of the pack’s married couple, though,” Jake points out. “All the guys are either single or working out the serious relationship thing. You were living with me when you were nineteen, and we kind of never stopped. I’m here more than my apartment anyway.”

“And usually in my bed.”

“More comfortable than whatever you did to the guest room I’m supposed to sleep in.”

“Bought a mattress exactly the same as my own, just a smaller size?”

Jake scoffs. “And it doesn’t have you in it, does it?”

Morgan laughs and finds that Jake is all too willing to kiss him quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Jake Gardiner is a precog in this, folks. He doesn’t really know how to explain it, nor does he care to, which is why he never outright tells Mo. He experiences the future the way you might a memory: kind of hazy, a little soft on the details, but when you see it you know it. Basically, Gards has an immense sense of deja vu half the time. I'm choosing to believe this is why he always looks slightly confused.
> 
> Thanks to A, J, and C for the edits and proof; thanks to the squad for putting up with my whining when this grew legs and ran away from me.
> 
> If I remember later after author reveals I'll edit my tumblr handle in, but until then: enjoy, forwardpass!! Happy rarepair exchange!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] This Everyday Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906720) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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